Strange Bedfellows
by written in dreams
Summary: One minute Eric Weiss is covert operations coordinator with the NSC. The next, he's hiding out deep in South America with a baby that isn't his and no idea when, or if, they can stop running for their lives.
1. Washington, DC

This was inspired by a fantastic ficlet (whose prompt doubles as this story's title) I read on the alias500 LJ community, by thedaytheystop, who graciously allowed me to take her work and run with it. I hope I've done it justice!

(Also, there are a few parts where a different language is spoken. I'm solid with the French, and am pretty sure the others are correct, but if there are errors, please let me know and I will amend them.)

* * *

**Strange Bedfellows**

**I. Washington, D.C.**

* * *

It's late when Weiss gets the strangest call of his life.

He's not asleep exactly, just in that lazy state of delirium that happens between _Jeopardy_ reruns and infomercials. Two empty beer bottles and half a bag of chips lie on the coffee table in front of him as he decompresses; he still hasn't quite gotten used to his new occupation. For the last ten minutes or so he's warred between getting up and going to bed or just staying on the couch for the night and hoping he'd remembered to set the alarm on his cell phone, neither option yet winning out.

The call saves him from having to make such a decision.

He jolts at the unexpected shrill of the telephone, and blearily looks at the clock as he stumbles to the kitchen—2:04 A.M. His half-conscious brain can't come up with any reasonable scenarios, so he opts for the simplest course of action.

"'Lo?"

His yawn is halted by the sheer urgency that answers him. "Weiss, listen very carefully to me." The tone is imbibed with a worry Weiss has never before heard, but the sharpness is inimitable.

"Jack?" Weiss asks in confusion, Jack's voice swiftly erasing fogginess from Weiss's head. "What—What is it? What's wrong?"

Jack rattles off an address Weiss apologetically makes him repeat twice, demanding an immediate arrival. Seemingly as an afterthought, he adds, "Bring a change of clothes."

_Click._

Weiss stares at the handheld in his palm, wondering if he's in the middle of some bizarre dream. But the blue glow of the television is too bright, the slightly crumby carpet beneath his feet is too rough, and the distant car alarm is too vivid for this to be his imagination. Which means the phone call was also very real.

Weiss shakes his head to clear it then sends his body into action. He's vaguely aware of his hands shaking as he scoops up whatever clothes are on the floor as well as a toothbrush and shoves them into a duffel bag. After two minutes of searching and much cursing, he finds and grabs his keys, stumbling out of his apartment.

The address isn't that far, twenty minutes by car (Weiss makes it in thirteen), but the way Weiss's mind races as he drives makes it seem like it's trans-Atlantic. He parks in front of what appears to be some sort of private hangar, not for the first time wondering what the hell is going on. He gets out of his car and walks towards it, debating whether it'd be safe to call out Jack's name or not.

He's spared further vacillation when Jack comes rushing out a moment later. He's not what raises Weiss's eyebrows, though—Sydney, one arm over Jack's shoulders to support her and the other carrying something wrapped in a blanket in the other, is what gets his attention.

He meets them halfway, speechless. "What—I—Sydney?"

There are tears running unchecked down her cheeks, her chest convulsing with sobs. He hears it then, a quiet snuffling of sorts, and looks down at the bundle. A baby. It's then he notices that Sydney's visibly un-pregnant, the bottom of her dress stained, and Weiss's eyes widen further.

"You should be in a hospital!" he exclaims. "Why are you—where did you—will someone tell me what the hell's happening?"

Sydney clearly of no help, he directs his question to Jack. Who shuts his eyes for one brief moment before answering. "There are people who will be after this baby, Agent Weiss," he says. "After Sydney. People we may or may not be able to take down. We can protect ourselves, but the baby—"

"Isabelle," Sydney rasps.

Jack's face softens as he continues, "But Isabelle will be at exceptional risk, just like Vaughn."

"She—wait," Weiss interrupts himself, Jack's tenses catching up with him. "Hang on, Vaughn's not—"

Jack's violent hushing both silences and affirms Weiss's guess. He allows himself a few seconds to absorb the fact that his best friend is not buried six feet under, but alive and sort-of-kicking.

"_Eric_," Jack intones, which yanks Weiss violently back to the present. He can count the number of times Jack's called him by his first name before, none of them encouraging occasions. "I think—_we_ think—the best way to protect Isabelle is to make sure she's not found. Make sure no one knows of her existence."

Dread begins to sweep over Weiss's body. Surely Jack doesn't mean…

"We need someone who knows the game but who's out of direct line of fire," says Jack. "We can't risk any of Sydney's outside friends" _Will_, Weiss fills in, "but none of us at 'the office' are low-risk enough either."

"Y-You want _me_ to take Isabelle?" Weiss squeaks. "_Me_?"

"You're our only chance, Eric. Isabelle's only chance," says Sydney softly. Her glossy eyes move from her daughter's to Weiss's, and beneath the sorrow there's conviction. "_Please_. You've always been the obvious choice for her godfather. I know this is way beyond that job description, but…I need you."

He really should have taken that vacation time the NSC had offered him. Or at least some aspirin before he left the house—his head is spinning.

Jack removes a thick packet from his jacket pocket and holds it out to Weiss, who takes it numbly. "Inside are two sets of identification: one for you, one for Isabelle. Passports, papers, money, everything. Leave your car at Dulles—there will be a man waiting for you when you reach Brussels."

_Brussels?_

Weiss nervously opens the envelope and pulls out what looks to be a birth certificate first. _Michelle Laura Jamison_, he reads. _Father: Kyle Thomas Jamison, Mother: Hannah Elaine Yates. Date of birth: 19 April 2006_. His confusion rising, he next pulls out a death certificate. _Decedent's Name: Hannah Elaine Jamison. Primary cause of death: Hemorrhage. Date of death: 19 April 2006._ Confusion gives way to trepidation as he pulls out a passport. His photo stares back at him and he warily looks to the right. _Name: Kyle Thomas Jamison_.

"There's a ring in there, too," Sydney whispers.

"You want me to say Isabelle is…that…that _I'm_ her _father_?" Weiss asks helplessly. He'd always wanted to have kids, do the whole marriage and picket fence thing, but not _now_, and certainly not like _this_.

A new sob catches in Sydney's throat. Weiss can't even begin to imagine how she's feeling. "Weiss," persists Jack, "we would not be…_asking_ if this weren't imperative."

"You really trust me that much?" Weiss can't help but inquire. "To take care of your daughter?"

Sydney doesn't speak—more accurately, she can't—but her nod is answer enough.

Weiss gulps. Part of him wants to say he can't do this, that they'd have to find somebody else, but another part of him knows from the minute he got Jack's phone call he'd do whatever was required. Despite the monumental task with which he's suddenly saddled, this is something he has to do. He loves Sydney and Vaughn too much to do anything less.

"Okay," he says. "Okay, I'll look after her."

"Promise me," Sydney chokes out. "_Promise me, Weiss_."

"I promise," he says, never more sincere of something in his life.

Jack gently pries Isabelle away from Sydney and places her in Weiss's arms. He's only held a baby a few times, and he's sure he's holding Isabelle wrong, but she continues to sleep nevertheless. Jack transfers Sydney's arm to Weiss's shoulders as he runs back into the hangar. He returns carrying a diaper bag and a baby carrier.

"This is all we had time to get," says Jack regretfully.

"I'll, uh, looks like I'll be using Google a lot," Weiss replies, staring at the items. Growing up, parents had never trusted him with babysitting. He's clueless.

"Sydney…" Jack prompts carefully, taking her balance back from Weiss. "Sydney, we have to go."

Weiss's heart breaks as he watches Sydney press kisses to Isabelle's forehead, murmuring her love, that she and Grandpa and Daddy would come for her soon, that she has to be good for Uncle Eric. She starts to take Isabelle again—Weiss would let her—but Jack pulls her away. Sydney's tears increase.

"Wait," Weiss calls to the retreating couple. "What am I supposed to do once I get to Brussels?"

"There's a safe house there," Jack answers. Weiss nods slowly—he knows the one. "Information will be supplied to you."

"Run," Sydney tells him with pleading eyes. "Keep her safe."

Weiss can do nothing but watch as Jack struggles to drag Sydney to the van and finally peels away in a squeal of rubber. The acrid scent of burnt tire hangs in the air as Weiss stares after them, Weiss still half-hoping this is just a very realistic dream.

Until his rational side wins out and he realizes the gravity of what's transpired. He swallows, Isabelle and their new identities clutched tightly in his right arm. Carefully, he places the diaper bag in the carrier and picks them up, slowly making his way back to the car. He tosses the diaper bag next to his duffel in the back seat and fumbles his way through securing the carrier to the passenger seat, delicately placing Isabelle in the straps. He lays his head on the steering wheel for a moment, hoping the adrenaline doesn't wear off for a long while.

Then, before he can let his thoughts catch up to him, he puts the car in drive and speeds off towards Washington-Dulles airport, armed with a few pieces of documentation, one change of clothes, a baby that isn't his, and an overwhelming responsibility.

But at least Isabelle hasn't started crying. Yet.

* * *

He's done this a million times before, this presenting false passports to an airline, but never has he felt this nervous. He fumbles both "Kyle's" and "Michelle's" as well as their plane tickets, hoping he looks like an anxious, perhaps grieving, parent. Isabelle's been remarkably timid since Sydney handed her over, for which Weiss is immensely grateful—he has no idea how to soothe an infant.

Luckily, the ticket attendant he gets is a middle-aged man, who has sympathy written all over his face. "New father?" he asks as he checks the passports.

Weiss gives something of a stuttered laugh that he supposes could pass as affirmation. "My w-wife, she died when Is—Michelle was born," he stumbles, cursing himself for lying so terribly but hoping the man doesn't see through it. "We have family in Brussels."

Weiss must look appropriately frazzled, because the man's face contorts into pity. "That's awful," he says, typing away at the keyboard. "Just be patient. Remember she's your priority now."

_Yeah, no kidding._

The man abruptly straightens, coughing to clear his throat. "Well, anyway," he says, back to business, "here are your passports and your tickets. Your flight will leave out of Gate C2. Have a safe flight, and good luck, Mr. Jamison. And you too, little one."

"Thanks," says Weiss, resituating Isabelle so he can take the proffered documents. He picks up the diaper bag and his duffel, making his way to security. The line isn't long, given the time of day, but Weiss stares at it warily. He knows how to zip through in record time by himself, but not with a baby. Is he supposed to take her tiny shoes off, too? Does her blanket count as outerwear? Does he hold her while he goes through the metal detector? Does he place her on the X-ray belt? He's never paid attention before to people with infants.

Airport employees must be sympathetic when they're bored and tired, though—an oxymoron, Weiss would have thought—because the X-ray attendant gives him a small smile and tells him Isabelle is fine as-is, he just needs to do his part. There's a woman behind him who offers to hold Isabelle while he removes his shoes, belt, and jacket, but even though she looks normal and it's not as if she'd just go running off with the baby, Weiss hesitates. Instead, he puts Isabelle temporarily in one of the gray bins and rids himself of the requisite apparel. He's sure he looks like a moron, but is also fairly sure he could be construed as a new father, just as the ticket attendant had presumed.

Which, Weiss realizes with a jolt, he kind of is.

Eventually he coordinates everything—and is very glad he hadn't thought to bring his gun; that'd have been awkward—and steps through the detector with Isabelle in his arms. The machine doesn't beep, nor do the carry-ons raise any flags, and with another warm smile the attendant motions for him to collect his belongings and continue on to his gate.

He's late, as usual, the plane already on the C group, but when the attendant sees he has Isabelle, she quickly waves him over. She looks at their tickets and says, "First class is right up front, sir. Let any of the attendants know if you or your child need anything at all."

Weiss nods and hurries down the walkway, a little stunned. First class? He has no idea how Jack wrangled that on such short notice, but he's incredibly glad. If he were prepared maybe he could have dealt with coach, but he's not. And while he's never been much for caring what people think of him, he'd hate for Isabelle to decide to start screaming her head off and have people glare at him. Especially since he has no idea what to do if that were to happen.

He's in the second row and places Isabelle on the seat next to the window, putting the diaper bag on the ground and tossing his duffel and baby carrier into the overhead compartment. He takes a few more moments to stretch out his limbs and breathe deep before buckling his seatbelt, reclining his seat, and settling Isabelle on his chest. He knows the whole reclining thing is frowned upon before the plane gets to altitude, but right now he really couldn't care less.

In fact, his body chooses right then and there that adrenaline is no longer necessary, at least not for the next eight hours, and the strain of the last ninety minutes comes crashing over him at once. Before the last of the passengers even settle into their seats, Weiss is sound asleep, arms secure around Isabelle's tiny body.

* * *

**Somewhere Over the Atlantic**

Weiss is awakened what seems like ten minutes later by a shriek, and he jumps into consciousness, automatically reaching for a gun that isn't there. He glances around and doesn't see any carnage, and then his surroundings catch up with him. He looks down and sees Isabelle…crying. Well, right now Weiss thinks she's more akin to a banshee than a baby.

"Oh God," he sighs helplessly. He tries bouncing her, murmuring nothingness. Humming impossibly seems to make it worse. "You're just like your parents," he mutters. "They never appreciated my singing either."

At this there's a small hiccup in Isabelle's crying, and Weiss appraises her shrewdly. He's not sure he should do this—any number of the either irate or pitying stares on him could be threats—but he doesn't know any other way.

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, making a mental note to shred his driver's license, insurance, and credit cards as he looks for his intended item. Finally he finds it, and shifts Isabelle to the side so he can show her.

It's a picture he took last November when, miraculously, almost everyone had congregated in the same place for Thanksgiving dinner. Isabelle still cries, but, unless Weiss is imagining it, they seem to have dropped a decibel.

"See this guy right here?" Weiss asks rhetorically, pointing to Dixon. He remembers to change the names at the last second. "This is your Uncle David. His house was biggest so we had to use his. His kids—those two right there, Rachel and Scott—they're the sullen ones. Had to sit at the 'kid's table' with your Uncle…Kyle. And this, this beautiful lady is your—your Aunt Natasha" Weiss swallows heavily, "who I know would have loved to meet you. This is your Uncle Matthew—he's a riot—and Aunt Candace, and their son Miles. They're all great people. This is your grandpa, who's a little too dedicated to his work, but he's a good guy, and I'm pretty sure you're the only person he's ever shown affection for. You're spoiled like that. And these two…these are your parents."

Weiss pauses, glancing at Isabelle and seeing in her Sydney's stubborn pout and dark hair, and Vaughn's deep green eyes and pointed nose (which Weiss is sure will be broken somewhere down the line when she inevitably plays hockey). He clenches his jaw and perseveres.

"They loved you so much," he says. "Victor and Sarah. Pretty, aren't they? Too pretty, I think. Where are my good genes, huh? I mean, I got the wit, of course, but I'd like some looks too, y'know? Anyway." He says the next part in a whisper so quiet even a wire wouldn't pick it up. "They'll come for you, Isabelle. I promise. But right now you've just got to work with me, okay? I'll do my best, but I need you to give me some leeway or else I can't protect you."

Intellectually Weiss knows there's no way Isabelle can understand him, but the way she gazes up at him with clear eyes and a dwindling cry makes him wonder. (And really, if there's any kid in the world who could understand speech when she's a day old, it's a Bristow-Vaughn.)

Isabelle turns her attention back to the photograph, clumsily brushing her fingers over Sydney and Vaughn's faces. He looks at the photograph with her, his heart heavy. It's almost unbearable to think that there's a chance Isabelle would never see Sydney, let alone Vaughn, ever again. For Weiss, it almost hurts more to know that his oldest and best friend is alive but that he might never get to have another beer with him, or go to a Kings game with him, or anything, and that Sydney, his sister for all intents and purposes, would never give him relationship advice or buy him unwanted vegetables ever again.

He sighs and checks his watch. Four hours to go. After that, he has no idea. Maybe they—

"You're a natural with her."

Weiss starts, not expecting the voice. He turns around to see a woman, early- to mid-thirties if he had to guess, leaning over with a gentle smile. She's pretty, he can't help but notice, and finds himself smiling back. Most of it's fake—managing any sort of legitimate grin right now is unthinkable—but some of it's real.

"That makes one of us who thinks so," he says idly.

She chuckles and says, "I'm Whitney. And you're great with her, really."

"Kyle," says Weiss. "I honestly don't really know what I'm doing."

"Well you figured something out," says Whitney, gesturing towards the photo. "That's all that really matters."

Weiss shrugs and looks down at Isabelle, who continues to gaze at the picture. "Day one of many."

Whitney's expression changes to one of alarm. "She's a day old? You took a newborn on a plane?"

Weiss feels himself getting indignant. "It was an emergency," he says. As an afterthought, he fiddles with the supposed wedding ring he'd remembered to put on.

A gesture Whitney notices, and immediately her face falls. "Oh no," she gasps, hands coming up to her mouth and apparently coming to the conclusion. "Oh gosh, I'm sorry, I didn't think—"

"You didn't know," Weiss dismisses.

Whitney clears her throat and says, "Well. I guess I should let you get back to, uh…right."

A blush tingeing her cheeks, Whitney turns away from Weiss, burying her nose in a book. Under other circumstances, Weiss is damn positive he'd flirt with her, probably come away with a date, but romance isn't really an option or focus right now. He looks up at the movie screens, vaguely watching the film and making up his own audio, trying his best to keep his mind off the present situation.

Another look down at Isabelle—he has a feeling he'll be doing a lot of that—tells him she'd fallen asleep, the photo crinkled in her pudgy hand.


	2. Brussels

**Strange Bedfellows**

**II. Brussels**

* * *

Weiss is grateful when they finally land, and as the flight attendant gives her trilingual de-planing instructions, he makes a mental note to switch from English to Dutch. He guesses that's why Jack chose Belgium, knowing Weiss is fluent in its language, and thinks it was rather considerate.

After her one outburst, Isabelle had slept the rest of the flight, not waking even when some of the other children onboard did due to the air pressure change. He finagles her and the luggage, the flight attendants motioning for him to leave the plane first, an action he welcomes.

Glad he doesn't have to wait in baggage claim like most others, he heads straight to Ground Transportation. As he descends the escalator with Isabelle's weight in his arms, he starts glancing around at the placards. Finally he sees "his" name on a sign in bold letters held by a man with no expression, and walks over.

"Heb je een sigaret?" Weiss asks, his tone conversational but his eyes imploring.

"Neen, ik ben gestopt met roken," replies the man, completing the identity confirmation.

Without further conversation, the man throws his placard in the trash and leads Weiss outside to the line of chauffeur cars, stopping at a nondescript black sedan. Weiss tosses the luggage in the backseat and situates Isabelle in the carrier then climbs into the passenger seat.

"We may speak freely," says the man in thickly accented English as he pulls onto the freeway. "This vehicle has been swept. My name is Jan."

Weiss leans back against the headrest, wishing he could sleep. "You've been informed of the situation then?"

Jan nods. "Mr. Bristow called us a few hours ago. He did not explain everything, just that we were to expect you and a child."

"Are there…did he leave any other instructions?"

Jan points to the glove compartment. "In there."

Weiss obligingly opens it and pulls out a letter, tired eyes scanning over the text.

_You must not stay anywhere for too long_, it reads in impersonal Times New Roman. _I trust you know this. Interact with only those whom you must, and under no circumstances reveal names. You will find a gun and some basic amenities in the safe house, in addition to plane tickets to Buenos Aires. You leave in two days. South America is safer for your identities. You will additionally be given cash and an address of one of my contacts, with whom you will pick up additional identification. It is too risky to have regular communication with you, so I expect you will maintain your covert existence._

_Sydney gives her best._

Weiss sets down the letter and looks again in the glove compartment where, just as Jack indicated, there lies a handgun, a wad of cash, a business card that is blank save for a phone number, and two plane tickets. Weiss understands Jack's reasoning behind going to South America, but he rather wishes—he's been doing a lot of wishing lately—that they could stay in Europe and hide, or Australia or Canada. Somewhere cushy. Weiss is as outdoorsy a person as the next guy, but the wilds of South America aren't his idea of a good time. Add in the omnipresent threat of death and it downright sucks.

He is fluent in Spanish, though, and Nadia had given him pointers on the nuances of the different dialects, so at least the language barrier shouldn't be too bad.

By the time Weiss finishes reflecting, Jan pulls up to the safe house, and hands Weiss a strip of paper with a phone number on it. "When you are ready to leave," he says, "call this. A secure car will come to take you to the airport. Good luck."

Jan helps Weiss situate his luggage, and then speeds away to places unknown. Weiss heaves a sigh and enters the safe house, a man just inside the door pointing to the rear of the house. Weiss obeys, finding a small room sparsely equipped, and gently sets Isabelle's carrier on the nightstand, dropping his duffel and the diaper bag on the ground wearily.

Isabelle naturally decides now is a good time to cry, and Weiss appraises her balefully. At least until he realizes what time it is and that—just as he is, for that matter—she's probably starving. He rifles through the diaper bag until he finds a bottle of milk, but then pauses. He remembers something about how he's supposed to heat it up, but not in a microwave because…well, he's not quite sure why, but he's pretty positive you're not supposed to.

He runs the tap in the bathroom as hot as it will go and holds the bottle underneath the stream until it feels warm enough. He takes Isabelle out of the carrier and holds her upright, bringing the bottle to her mouth. She makes a face as she starts sucking on it and Weiss fears it's too cold or too hot or something, but she continues drinking so he figures it must be acceptable. He _really_ doesn't know what he'll do when he runs out of the bottles, but hopes his mother's philosophy of how everything works out one way or another is actually true.

The silence and the day's events finally catching up with him, Weiss manages to wait until Isabelle finishes drinking, and then falls backwards on the bed, cradling Isabelle to his chest.

* * *

He's flown enough to where jet lag is rarely an issue, and so awakens at nine a.m. the next morning, for a moment wondering where the hell he is before remembering. Isabelle had awakened sometime before he did, taking to gazing around the room, one hand clutching the blanket and the other halfway in her mouth. Weiss gently removes it and picks her up. It's then he notices a smell and looks at her in horror.

"Oh God," he shudders. "Oh no."

His worst fears are confirmed, and he quickly rummages through Isabelle's bag and pulls out a diaper and baby wipes. To him, they might as well be the internal workings of a spaceship—in Russian. Frantically he pulls out his phone and calls up Google, typing in his query. It yields about a billion results, so he goes for the easiest route and clicks the first link. In text it seems straightforward and relatively hassle-free, but looking at Isabelle and the diaper, he thinks it can't be that simple. To be quite honest, he'd rather defuse a bomb.

But he also knows that leaving it unattended would only make things worse so he brings her into the bathroom and sets her on the counter, following the instructions on the website. It takes much longer than the site says it should, and Weiss nearly throws up about a dozen times, but eventually he figures it out.

"You'd better be happy," he warns Isabelle, scrubbing his hands about fifteen times. "You'd better appreciate my sacrifice."

He'd meant it as a facetious comment, but his face sobers as he realizes the deeper meaning it has. He clenches his jaw and brings Isabelle over to the bed again, redressing her and then dressing himself. Jack's contact won't wait forever.

Exiting out of the internet, he studies the card Jan had given him and punches in the phone number. It rings thrice before a gruff voice picks up. "Hallo?"

"Ik ben Eric Weiss," he says, hoping his phone isn't tapped. "Ik ben een collega van Jack Bristow."

A pause, then, "Ja. Ontmoet me op de bank in het centrum van Josaphatpark in twintig minuten. Ik zal dragen een gele hoed."

"Oké. Ik—"

The line clicks before Weiss can get out another word, and he scoffs. "Nice talking to you, too."

If he's not mistaken, Isabelle's eyebrow is raised as if she'd heard the conversation as well. "You and me both, Izzy."

This time an expression of pure distaste. "Okay, no nickname. Isabelle it is."

He finds a map in the nightstand drawer and searches it until he finds Josaphat Park: it's large and open; perfect for nonchalant communication. It's not far by his estimation, but he'd rather give himself some extra time.

He places Isabelle in her carrier and steps out of the safe house into blinding sunlight, trying to orient himself. Once he gets to a main street, Boulevard Lambermontlaan, it gets much easier and he follows it until it runs straight into the park.

It really is a beautiful place, its gigantic grounds filled with everything from a soccer stadium to inns to fountains and ponds, and if Weiss weren't in such a delicate situation, he'd very much like to walk around. As it is, however, he makes his way to the center, eyes traversing over all the people and the benches. Finally he sees him—a nondescript looking man, average build and sharp features, with a worn leather jacket and a mustard yellow sort of toque.

Satisfied that it's his contact, Weiss strides over, taking a seat next to him. They don't look at each other, giving off the air of two strangers making superfluous conversation. "Hoe heet u? En spreekt u Engels?"

"Mijn naam is Hannes. And yes, I speak," replies the man. Weiss gathers his fluency leaves something to be desired, but it's doable. He'd be okay speaking just Dutch, but frankly his head hurts and he'd rather use his brainpower for, you know, surviving.

"The note I got said you have some things for me," says Weiss.

"Ja," replies Hannes. He places a thick, large envelope on the bench space between them. "Three new sets of identities. Keep the birth papers you were given but not the passports after you use them. If you need additional identities, here is the number of a South American contact."

He puts a card on top of the envelope. As with the one Jan gave him, there is only a phone number printed on it. Hannes's words alarm Weiss. _Three IDs? A contact if I need more? How long do they expect me to hide out with Isabelle?_

Lastly, Hannes puts a smaller envelope on top of the card. "Plane tickets," he explains. "Tell Jack we are even."

Weiss snorts. "You'll probably see him before I do."

Hannes stands up, hands in his pockets, and looks down at Weiss with something like pity. "Veel succes," he says. "Tot ziens."

Weiss laughs derisively. "Dank u."

Hannes nods and then walks away, his yellow toque-clad head disappearing into the crowd. Weiss sighs and picks up the pile Hannes had bestowed, feeling nothing but trepidation.

"I guess now's when the fun part starts."

* * *

They spend one more night in the Brussels safe house, Weiss poring through the various passports, and the next morning they board a plane (this time Weiss is smoother with the whole lying thing). As the plane ascends into the clouds, Weiss stares down at the land below, wondering when—hell, _if_—he'd ever see it, or the States, again.


	3. Buenos Aires

**Strange Bedfellows**

**III. Buenos Aires**

* * *

"Ella es hermosa. Al igual que su padre."

_I'm not her father_, Weiss almost says. Correcting himself, he replies, "Sí. Su padre."

The customs agent stamps both his and Isabelle's passports and smiles. "Bienvenido a Argentina, Señor Markhov. Y tú, pequeña."

Isabelle doesn't react to the endearment, just maintains her uncertainty. Weiss can commiserate. "Gracias," he replies, adding on a perfunctory smile. He stows the passports and exits Customs, a sizable part of him wanting to turn right back around in the airport and go home. But he forces his feet to keep moving, hailing a taxi and instructing the driver to drop them off half a mile from the safe house.

This safe house is even less stocked than the one in Brussels, the overhead light flickering every now and then, the bed rickety. There's a gun on the nightstand, which he places under the thin pillow, and a colorful postcard labeled _Düsseldorf_ resting on the coverlet. He flips it over to see two words written in Sydney's careful handwriting.

_Not yet._

Weiss exhales heavily—he hadn't realized he'd gotten his hopes up that it'd say something like _Hey, just kidding! I went and got Vaughn, and we're on our way to take you both home_—and sets Isabelle on the bed. He collapses into the equally rickety chair next to her, a hand running through his hair.

He's been to Buenos Aires before, with Nadia, and they'd had a great time. He wishes like hell it felt now like it did then, like an exciting adventure, but it's far from that. As the minutes pass, Weiss slack-shouldered in the chair and Isabelle fidgeting on the bed, the reality of what's going on sets in.

_I'm a fugitive_, he confirms. _People are going to come after me. Assassins. They're going to come after Isabelle. And I'm probably the most poorly prepared person on the planet to deal with this._

He lets himself get pissed at Sydney, at Jack, at Vaughn, at everything, standing up in fury and punching a dent in the wall. He knows it's not entirely a rational anger—it's not like they _wanted_ this to happen—but he feels it nonetheless. If he didn't know them, if he hadn't accepted the NSC promotion, he wouldn't be anywhere near this position. He'd be desk jockeying and coordinating covert ops like a normal person.

He stares at baby Isabelle, pondering fury towards her as well, and as he does so his ire slowly starts to dwindle. She's as much a victim of this as he is. And, he processes with a chill, he's the only person she can count on. He's her only hope for survival. Weiss has never come close with this sort of responsibility, never pegged himself for taking on this much, but the fact is that he has no choice.

He walks over to her, brushing his hand over her silky head. "Just you and me now," he says softly. As if Sydney, Vaughn, and Jack could hear him, he says with conviction at the ceiling, "You damn well better know what you're doing. Because I sure as hell don't."


	4. Sucre

**Strange Bedfellows**

**IV. Sucre**

* * *

"Ella es hermosa. Al igual que su padre."

"Sí. Su padre."

"Bienvenido a Bolivia, Señor Quincy. Y tú, pequeña."

"Gracias."

A drive, a safe house, a gun, a postcard.

_Not yet._

Brussels and even Buenos Aires provided safe houses that were pretty solid—not minimalist enough for cold formula to be an issue, really. So far it's all worked out. But as Weiss makes his way to the Bolivian safe house deep in the Andes mountains, he has a feeling he's not going to be so lucky. The bed here is cheap and creaky, the floor is partially eaten though in spots by bugs, the windows are glued shut with grime. There's barely a toilet and dripping water, let alone a stove or water hot enough for a bottle.

He's never been that imaginative of a guy, but looking at Isabelle, he wracks his brain for some way to fix this. She didn't ask for this situation any more than he did, and he's damn well not going to make her suffer more for it.

He knows they can't stay in the safe house for more than a day or two, not when it's this unprotected, which means he doesn't have much time. Feeling like a poor man's MacGyver, he scrounges up an old pan and fills it with the slow-running water from the faucet. Following the directions on the formula packet, he pours the powder into a bottle and follows it up with the requisite amount of water and shakes it. Now for the actual hard part.

Isabelle hadn't stopped wailing for hours, and though Weiss knows it's not generally good etiquette to leave a baby by herself, he calculates the risk being higher if he brings her with him and have her screams alert someone.

Swearing to her that he'll return quickly, he takes the pot of water and bottle outside, haphazardly searching the ground until he finally comes across what he'd been looking for. In a patch of sun lie a handful of rocks, blessedly dry and heated by the light, and he quickly places them in the bottom of the pan. It far from boils, but between the rocks and the continued sunlight, the water, and the formula inside the bottle, warms.

After a few minutes he tests the liquid and to his delight finds that it's adequate. Certainly not an _ideal_ temperature, but Weiss is pretty damn pleased with himself regardless. A grin on his face he brings his ingredients inside, preparing himself for now having to figure out how to make Isabelle stop wailing long enough to drink it.

His method is crude, but it works, and as he and Isabelle awkwardly traverse the mountains, he's able to duplicate it. Sometimes it requires walking an extra mile to find hot enough rocks, or a patch of sunlight, or water, but it's sustainable nonetheless.

In his mind, because thinking makes him feel the slightest bit less helpless and lost, he adds a tally next to his name and vows to hold this achievement over Vaughn's head in the future. (Because Vaughn and Sydney will come for them, they _will_.) So what if Vaughn can kick his ass all up and down the rink? _Weiss can warm up baby formula in the goddamn Bolivian mountains_.


	5. São Paulo

**Strange Bedfellows**

**V. São Paulo**

* * *

"Ela é linda. Assim como seu pai."

"Sim. Seu pai."

"Bem-vindo ao Brasil, Senhor Rodrigues. E você, pequenina."

"Obrigado."

A drive, a safe house, a gun, a postcard.

_Not yet._

A night interrupted. A safe house compromised. "Go," says the keeper, right before being shot through the chest with a sawed-off. Isabelle shrieks—or maybe it's Weiss, he can't quite tell—and Weiss barely has the presence of mind to grab the diaper bag before sprinting out.

He knows many countries well, but Brazil isn't one of them; it's a fact he acknowledges as he runs through brush and up muddy slopes, trying to get as far away from the guerrilla gunfire and shouting as possible. Isabelle's crying doesn't help with that, and it's rather hard to try to shush her while he's running, meaning he has to be that much more diligent.

After what seems like hours he no longer hears the shouts, and he sits down on a fallen log, sweat already dripping down his back as he looks at Isabelle. He thinks only of calming her down as the sun slowly slips from the sky, finally getting her to cease as dusk strikes.

It's then, however, that he realizes her crying was the least of his concerns. He feels a feather-light tickle on his arm and glances down, finding a mosquito sitting there, proboscis ready to pierce his skin. He slaps and kills it lazily, not thinking much of it, until he remembers where he is.

Under normal circumstances, all he'd have to worry about would be an itchy red bump. But he's pretty sure worse things can happen when he's in the Brazilian rainforest…with a newborn, no less. He curses himself for not demanding inoculations or medicine or whatever when they were in Brussels.

He inventories their supplies, finding nothing of usefulness. He'd have to do this manually.

For the next ten hours until the sun rises, Weiss doesn't move. That is, except to swat mosquitoes away from Isabelle's vulnerable body. He loses track of how many he's killed, just that in no way, shape, or form will he let them inject even a drop of toxin into Isabelle's skin. Judging from itchy spots on his exposed skin he knew weren't there before he's well-aware he's been bitten multiple times. He knows he's at risk, that chances are at least one of the bites has malaria infecting it, but by his estimates, he's got more time than Isabelle would. He thinks malaria moves pretty quickly, but he's an adult, and he's hardy (_thanks for the German genes, Mom_).

He gets up from the log only when pinkish-yellow rays light up the forest and the mosquitoes abandon their attack, feeding Isabelle one of the precious few bottles he has left as he treks through the trees. He'd have to get more formula, somewhere. Isabelle doesn't cry as Weiss walks (not that he knows where he's going), which he appreciates, just sucks on her bottle and gazes around with inquisitive eyes.

They hike for two days until Weiss stumbles across a road which leads to a small city where he manages to acquire a room at a shabby inn. He has his wallet that contains some money, but it's money he'd rather save, so he somewhat ashamedly manipulates the owner by using Isabelle. Babies tend to get you sympathy.

By some stroke of luck, Weiss never develops malaria symptoms, and while he's not much for the whole karma mumbo-jumbo, he wonders if maybe being so vigilant with keeping Isabelle from contracting it—despite his approximation of two hundred swarming mosquitoes, he's proud to note Isabelle has not a single bite—he avoided the fate as well.

That said, after a few days of recouping at the inn, he makes a point to find the nearest hospital to get shots and quinine.


	6. Zandery

**Strange Bedfellows**

**VI. Zandery**

* * *

"Ella es hermosa. Al igual que su padre."

"Sí. Su padre."

"Bienvenido a Surinam, Señor Hale. Y tú, pequeña."

"Gracias."

A drive, a safe house, a gun, a postcard.

_Not yet._

Weiss sits in the room's wobbly chair, a migraine sandblasting its way through his skull. His ears haven't stopped ringing since…he can't even remember how long, it feels like a construction crew is going to town on his forehead, and there's an ache down his spine that won't go away. It's not like a usual migraine, though—he knows precisely where this one's coming from.

"Shh, Isabelle," he begs. "Please, _please_ calm down."

He can't readily recall a time _before_ she started crying. More mysteriously, he can't figure out how in the hell she has so much energy and air in her lungs. A side effect of being the offspring of two of the most tireless people on the planet, and a very irksome one to boot.

"Isabelle, please," he tries again. Not that he has much hope for success. He's been doing this nonstop. He wonders if the people after Isabelle have heard her (he's pretty sure people in _Zimbabwe_ can hear her) and are staying away because they simply don't want to deal with the screaming. Weiss wouldn't blame them.

He briefly contemplates trying the picture thing again, but doubts it'll work. Isabelle's concentration is laser-focused, and it's not on quieting.

"Isabelle, I will leave you for some wild pig to find."

Nothing.

"Isabelle, I will offer you up as eagle food."

Nothing.

"Isabelle, I refuse to heat up your bottles."

Nothing.

"Isabelle, I'll sing."

Nothing.

Weiss groans in frustration, pondering the merits of hitting his head against the wall. It couldn't possibly be any more painful than how he feels right now. This happened once to him. Back in health class of junior year of high school when everyone had to take care of a baby for a week. Except then, getting the thing to shut up was as simple as taking out the batteries. He's decently certain that won't fly this time.

"Okay, look, squirt," Weiss says, staring intently at her as he holds her out in front of him. "I know spending time with Uncle Eric in weird places isn't your definition of fun, but it's not mine either. And I know you're having a grand old time making Uncle Eric crazy, but it'd be great if we could quit that. So you know what's going to happen? I'm going to go to bed. And you're coming with me. And you know something else? Women have no trouble falling asleep next to me. Usually prematurely. Don't you dare break that pattern."

As far as he can tell Isabelle heard absolutely none of that, but Weiss is literally at his wits' end. He kicks off his shoes and pulls a blanket out from the diaper bag, swaddling Isabelle in it until she's more or less like a very loud chrysalis. He tugs on the lamp chain next to the bed to shut it off, and lays down on the lumpy pillow. The darkness doesn't do much to help his headache, but it's not making it any _worse_ either.

"Kids like bedtime stories, right?" he asks no one in particular. "Okay, so I could just recap Disney movies…"

He peers at her calculatingly.

"No…you're Syd and Vaughn's kid. So…did you hear of that time I got shot?"

Isabelle hiccoughs and Weiss's feeble beacon of hope shines. "It's a great story, really. I mean at the time it sucked, but _now_ it's fun to tell."

He dives into the story, the bullet scar on his neck twingeing, using as expressive of voices and extravagant of vocabulary as his migraine allows, praying it'll distract Isabelle. He embellishes a few aspects of what really went down, pointedly neglects to mention that it was Isabelle's grandmother who shot him, and extends the story to much longer than it actually needs to be, doing his best to verbally recreate the scene. He doesn't think it's exactly an appropriate story to tell at Mommy and Me classes, but he also doesn't think Sydney or Vaughn would get caught dead at such classes, so.

"And so then I finally got to go back to work and make everyone's days enjoyable again," he concludes. "Let me tell you—people always get a kick out of these sorts of stories, especially the ladies. Your Aunt Nadia totally fell for me right after she heard it."

Weiss pauses to take a breath, and it's then he hears it. Rather…_doesn't_ hear it. He stills, listening, and hears only the chatter of cicadas outside and a kind of snoring that's at once hilarious and precious. Primarily because snoring means not crying. Weiss nearly starts crying himself out of gratitude.

"_Finally_," he moans.

He never expected his life to come to this. Sleeping next to a baby girl, not his own, somewhere deep in hiding in South America. He'd meant to marry, have kids, get out of the spy game altogether maybe. He'd be the epitome of a cheesy American dad, helping carve out pumpkins on Halloween and stringing colored lights around the roofline for Christmas and having one too many glasses of champagne on New Year's Eve.

But instead he's here, lying on a ratty bed moving not even the slightest of muscles, not only because he's afraid any errant twitch could cause Isabelle to wake again, but because he's utterly exhausted. They're safe, for tonight at least, and he really wants nothing more than to fall asleep, but he keeps one eye on the downy top of her head, just in case.

It's been three months. He's been with her every step of the way, fulfilling Jack and Sydney's desperate request with aplomb.

In the delirium of fatigue and darkness, he allows himself to wonder what-ifs. What if he'd refused to take Isabelle, just got back in his car and drove to his house? What if he got to Brussels with her, decided it was too much, and handed her back? What if he'd just gone back to his job the next day? What if instead of involuntarily going into hiding with someone else's child he'd stuck to normalcy? He might have concerns about what would have happened to Sydney and the baby, but at least he'd be safe in D.C.

The imagining of these scenarios makes him nauseas with guilt. He clenches his hands into fists, willing it to go away. It doesn't, and he glances around the blackened room aimlessly.

He turns over, one hand on the gun underneath the pillow, and fixes his eyes on the small, dark outline of Isabelle's body. Looking at her, he remembers why. He gently rests his hand on her stomach, listening to her rhythmic breaths, and closes his eyes.


	7. Kourou

**Strange Bedfellows**

**VII. Kourou**

* * *

"Elle est belle. Juste comme son père."

"Ouais. Son père."

"Bienvenue à la Guyane française, Monsieur Tremblay. Et toi, petite."

"Merci."

A drive, a safe house, a gun, a postcard.

_Not yet._

French isn't Weiss's best language, but having one's closest friend annoyingly fluent in the language makes you pick some things up. Plus, he feels that French Guiana would be out of a projected path by anyone looking for them. Perhaps they would anticipate he and Isabelle would go to Peru or Uruguay or some other "typical" South American country. Perhaps they'd look at Weiss's profile and see that his only official spoken languages are English, Dutch, and Spanish, and so there'd be no reason to go into a French-speaking country.

(Or perhaps they're simply half a day behind and would find their quarry before the new day breaks. That option isn't Weiss's preference.)

It's also a nice culinary change of pace. Not that he doesn't enjoy traditional South American cooking, but having some Creole thrown in there is welcomed. He mulls this over as he counts out change for what looks like some sort of seafood-meat amalgam—bouillon d'Awara the sign says—smiling at the woman and hoping it reaches his eyes.

"Merci, monsieur," says the woman as she hands him the dish. Noticing Isabelle, she continues, "Sa fille est adorable."

Weiss begins to thank her, but doesn't get the chance. "Uncle," says Isabelle.

Weiss nearly drops her in surprise. He stares at her with wide eyes in awe. "What?"

"Uncle," says Isabelle again, louder, testing the sound. "Uncle."

"Je suis désolée," says the shopkeeper apologetically. "J'ai supposé que—"

"Non," Weiss says hurriedly. "C'est pas ça. C'est juste…c'est son premier mot."

He continues to gaze at Isabelle in wonder. Well, wonder and sadness. He's overjoyed at the fact that he was here for the first time she spoke, but at the same time…Sydney and Vaughn should have been there too. It's monumentally unfair. He hadn't really thought about it given their precarious situation, but now that he realizes how many firsts he's been here for, for how many Isabelle's parents haven't…it makes him feel guilty. He knows he shouldn't, given what responsibility said parents gave him, but he does.

It shouldn't have been him who calmed her first cry. It shouldn't have been him who rocked her into her first sleep. It shouldn't have been him who fed her her first bottle. It shouldn't have been him who gave her her first bath. It shouldn't have been him who heard her first giggle. It shouldn't have been him who kissed her first scrape. It shouldn't have been him who taught her how to crawl and how to walk. It shouldn't have been him who potty trained her. It shouldn't have been him who bought her her first clothes. It shouldn't be his name that's her first word.

_It shouldn't be him_.

"Pourquoi êtes-vous triste, monsieur?" asks the shopkeeper. "C'est fantastique!"

Weiss gives her a thin smile. "Ses parents devraient être ici."

"C'est fantastique," the woman repeats, more seriously this time. "Si vous me demandez, la seule chose importante est qu'elle est aimée."

Weiss doesn't answer. It _is_ fantastic news (_thank God I didn't mess her up completely_), and so help him she's got him wrapped around her finger. But at the same time, a part of him wishes she hadn't spoken at all.


	8. Barranquilla

**Strange Bedfellows**

**VIII. Barranquilla**

* * *

"Ella es hermosa. Al igual que su padre."

"Sí. Su padre."

"Bienvenido a Colombia, Señor Phillips. Y tú, pequeña."

"Gracias."

A drive, a safe house, a gun, a postcard.

_Not yet._

He's pretty sure Sydney would hit him, Vaughn would give him a slap shot to the nads, and Jack would kill him for doing this, but he's losing his mind being either cooped up in a half-assed safe house or hiding out in the rainforest.

They'd been in other countries that had beaches—hell, South America has all of a couple of countries _not_ surrounded by water—but he'd never had the opportunity to go see them. You know, that life endangerment thing.

But Isabelle's two and a half, he's been able to spend longer amounts of time in each place, and he's half-convinced she'll turn out mentally deficient if she, too, doesn't get out. So he risks the hypothetical wrath of Isabelle's family, secures a hat on her head to protect her face, and sets out for the nearest shore.

When they reach the water, he has to blink a few times to be positive he's not looking at some Photoshop. The water is impossibly blue and clear, clearer than any beach he'd ever seen. There's a smattering of people, but not many which, really, is best anyway. He glances at Isabelle who regards the water with fascination, and grins.

"All right, Isabelle," he says, "I'm gonna put you down and we're going to walk over this way, okay?"

Walking—running, rather—being old hat by now, they make it to where the waves meet the shore within moments, and he brings her in just far enough so her ankles are submerged. She giggles at the warm, salty sensation, squidging her toes in the sand.

"This feels funny!" she laughs, bending down to pick up a handful of sand and watching it fall through her fingers in awe.

"We're on a _beach_," Weiss intones.

"Beach," Isabelle repeats obediently, committing the word to memory. Pointing out at the sea, she states, "Water."

"Yeah," allows Weiss, "but when it's all salty and big like this? It's called the ocean."

"Oh," says Isabelle, scrunching up her face. "Ocean." A pause, then: "Can I go?"

Weiss chuckles. "Not too far, Isabelle. It looks pretty, but it can be dangerous, too."

He really hopes she takes his word for it, because there are hardly any waves, and he thinks he sees dolphins jumping in the distance. Not exactly the poster child for rip currents and bloodthirsty sharks.

But he looks at her face, at her pleading green eyes, and sighs. "All right. But just a little."

He picks her up and wades further in, stopping when the water comes up to just under his chest. He's certain it doesn't drop off for a while, but he'd like to err on the side of caution. It's one thing to be here and have everyone think nothing of you, that you're just an average father and daughter. It's another to be rushed to a doctor and have to answer questions because you nearly drowned.

It's deep enough for Isabelle, though, and she positively glows as he gently helps her paddle around. She gazes into the water and points at the small, brightly-colored fish that dart around Weiss's shins, asking him what their names are. He's not anything close to an ichthyologist so he just rattles off characters from _Finding Nemo_, figuring she won't know the difference.

He doesn't realize how long they're out there until he notices the sky has turned from blue to a faint orange-violet. Isabelle isn't pleased about having to leave the water, but she doesn't exactly have the strength or size advantage, so she merely pouts her lip and reluctantly hangs onto Weiss's shoulders as he brings them back onto the beach.

Once he's clear of the waves, he sits down with Isabelle on his lap and points out at the horizon. "The sun's about to go to sleep," he explains. "See how the sky is changing colors?"

Isabelle tilts her head up to look at him. "Why?"

He's not an astronomer either. "Because…it wants you to see something pretty before it turns off the lights."

Isabelle seems to accept the answer, facing forward again. "I like purple. Purple's my favorite color."

"You know, purple is the color of kings and queens," Weiss mentions casually.

Isabelle gasps and turns right back around. "So I'm like a princess?"

Weiss smiles. "You're exactly like a princess."

Isabelle claps her hands in happiness. A breeze ripples over the beach and catches her hair, blowing the long brown strands into Weiss's face.

"We should probably get you a haircut soon," he comments, noticing it reaches down to her waist.

This doesn't go over well. "Princesses," Isabelle announces haughtily, "do not need haircuts."

Weiss doesn't object, but he doesn't assent either, deciding this way Isabelle wouldn't be able to accuse him of reneging on a promise if and when he takes her to a barber. Silence falls as the two watch the sun continue to descend, the sky stained a fusion of magenta, gold, and burgundy.

"Watch closely," he says to her when the sun is nearly set. "Supposedly when the top of the sun hits the ocean, there's a flash of green."

Isabelle's eyes widen as she commands herself not to blink. She holds her breath as the sun begins its final plunge, determined to see what Weiss never has. Just as he thinks they missed it or that it didn't appear, suddenly a brilliant, emerald-hued light blinks out at them, lasting for a scant second before disappearing.

It's enough for Isabelle though. "You were right, Uncle Eric, you were right!" she exclaims.

"Of course I was," he says lightly. "I'm hurt that you think I would lie to you."

Isabelle rolls her eyes in a way that's so similar to her father's it makes Weiss's heart constrict. "Can we go to the beach every day?" she asks.

He'd like nothing more than to say yes, to appease her, but he knows he can't swear something like that. "We'll see," he hedges. "We'll try."

Isabelle wriggles down to rest her head on Weiss's thigh, staring out at the darkening sky. Weiss absently detangles her salt-ridden hair, doing his best to pretend for as long as he can that this is just a fun vacation and not a reckless jaunt.


	9. Caracas

**Strange Bedfellows**

**IX. Caracas**

* * *

"Ella es hermosa. Al igual que su padre."

"Sí. Su padre."

"Bienvenido a Venezuela, Señor Carmichael. Y tú, pequeña."

"Gracias."

A drive, a safe house, a gun, a postcard.

_Not yet._

He doesn't mean to fall asleep, but he supposes his body simply refused to continue functioning after so little sleep and so much stress. He wakes up groggy but a little more rested, and reflexively reaches his arm to the side to feel for Isabelle. His hand touches only mattress.

Instantly his mind sobers and he abruptly jumps off the bed, searching around the tiny room for Isabelle. An icy chill comes over him as he realizes she's nowhere to be found. He runs through the safe house calling her name, not even caring that his voice probably carries ten miles away, his heart racing and his brain going through various awful scenarios.

_Someone's kidnapped her._

_She was killed._

_I was drugged and she was dragged somewhere._

A lump forms in Weiss's throat and he sits on the floor against the wall with his head on his knees. "I had one job," he murmurs to himself. "One job and I failed…"

What would Sydney say? Or Vaughn? Or Jack? He can't even fathom their faces.

Resolve overcoming the panic, Weiss stands up and heads for the door, determined to tear apart all of Venezuela, all of South America, to find her. He didn't come this far just to—

"Uncle Eric?"

Weiss whirls around to see Isabelle traipsing through the back door, a half-peeled plantain in her hand.

"Uncle Eric, what's wrong?"

Eric takes a breath and rushes over to her. "_Isabelle_," he whispers. "Don't you _ever_ do that again."

"Do what?" Isabelle asks innocently. "What did I do?"

"Don't run off like that without telling me," Weiss intones. "Do you understand? Running off gets people killed."

He regrets his words the minute he says them, Isabelle's eyes wide with fear. "W-What?"

Weiss shuts his eyes, telling his heartbeat to slow down. "I'm sorry," he says gently. "But there are people out there who would want to hurt us, to hurt you. If you wander away like that, I'm not able to keep an eye on you and make sure you're okay."

Isabelle's face is full of apology. "I'm really sorry," she says with tears in her eyes. "But you were sleeping and I didn't want to…I just wanted a snack…"

Weiss gives her a smile which belies his very slowly decreasing terror. "It's okay. Just please don't do something like that again. You can wake me up no matter what. I know this is a hard time right now, but you've got to trust me, all right?"

Isabelle nods and throws her arms around his neck. "Okay."

Weiss squeezes her to him for a few moments, then separates. "Now," he says with another smile, "how about you give Uncle Eric a bite of that banana, huh?"

Isabelle gives him a false glare, but holds out the fruit to him anyway. He takes a large chunk out of it, still not entirely used to the firmer texture. "It's a _plantain_," Isabelle corrects proudly. "There's a difference."

Weiss is pretty sure there isn't, or one that's negligible, but doesn't dare correct her. "You're right," he says. "As usual."

Isabelle grins, and the plantain excursion becomes both the first and last incident of its kind. Weiss knows she's not fond of the arrangement, of having to bring her guardian everywhere she goes, but it's the one subject on which he never wavers. Isabelle's beseeching words and smile are not enough to overcome the nightmarish envisioning he has of her parents' devastation. Or, worse, or her tiny body broken and bleeding.


	10. Guayaquil

**Strange Bedfellows**

**Chapter X: Guayaquil**

* * *

"Ella es hermosa. Al igual que su padre."

"Sí. Su padre."

"Bienvenido a Ecuador, Señor Leland. Y tú, pequeña."

"Gracias."

A drive, a safe house, a gun, a postcard.

_Not yet._

Weiss sits down on the bed and tosses the luggage to the floor, running a hand through his hair as usual. The safe house is like all the others, drab, Spartan, not meant for long stays. He contemplates the pros and cons of getting up to take a shower and just passing out right here, but doesn't get any further than _Should I…_

"I really wish they'd stop calling me 'pequeña.'"

Weiss opens one eye and peers at the speaker. He chuckles and lays back again. "You know they're just being nice, Isabelle."

"But I'm eight years old!" Isabelle whines. "I'm not a stupid 'pequeña' anymore."

Weiss sighs and sits up, looking seriously at her. He'd of course honored her birthdays, but had never really added them up until she did herself. Eight years. They've been on the run for eight years. As he stares at her now, he wonders how anyone could still think she's his daughter—the only thing they share is brown hair. Isabelle is petite but strong, her skin pale and unblemished save for a chicken pox scar (dear God had that outbreak nearly given Weiss a heart attack) above her eyebrow, her eyes vivid green, her cheeks dimpled, her attitude trying.

"Uncle Eric," Isabelle presses. Weiss is supremely glad he'd managed to teach Isabelle the difference between Dad and Uncle, and that even at a young age she was smart enough to not correct flight attendants or little old ladies when they assumed. "_Uncle Ericccccc_."

Weiss blinks himself out of his reverie. "_What_?" he asks exasperatedly. Then, realizing his tone might have come across harsh, he adds, "_Pequeña_."

Isabelle sticks out her tongue and puts her hands on her hips. "You're mean."

Weiss smiles. "That's me. Mean ol' Weiss," he kids. "But you love me anyway."

Isabelle vehemently shakes her head, but the sparkle in her eyes and the poorly concealed grin say otherwise. She begins to respond, but then catches sight of the note on the bed. Before Weiss can snatch it away from her, Isabelle plops on the bed and picks it up. She reads the two tiny words, then hopefully flips the paper over as if expecting to see an explanation on the back.

There isn't.

Isabelle hangs her head, and Weiss gently places a hand on her back. "Isabelle…"

"They're never coming for me, are they?" she asks, tears springing to her eyes.

It's not the first time this subject has come up, but Weiss has usually been able to dispel it with clever wordplay or ice cream. He has a feeling this time it won't be so easy. "Isabelle, they will," he swears, doing his best to put credibility behind it. "I promise you, they'll come for you. They'll come for both of us."

He reaches for Isabelle's backpack on the floor and takes something from it, then beckons Isabelle onto his lap. She obliges after a moment, lip wobbling. He directs both of their attentions to the well-worn photo in his hands, the figures in it somewhat faded but still distinguishable.

"Isabelle," Weiss says slowly. "The first time I showed this to you, you were just a few hours old and we were on our way to Belgium. You were screaming your head off and I couldn't get you to stop. Showing you this picture was the only thing that calmed you down. You know why? Because I went through everyone and explained how much a part of their lives you were. How much you _are_."

He points to each person in turn. "Dixon and Robyn and Stephen. Marshall and Carrie and Mitchell. Aunt Nadia. Grandpa Jack. And…"

Isabelle sniffles. "Mommy and Daddy."

"Yes," says Weiss emphatically. "Your mom and dad. They're two of the best people I have ever known in the entire world. And they love you so much."

"So why can't they just _come_?" Isabelle whispers.

"Because…because there are bad people in this world," says Weiss. "Bad people who want to hurt you. And your mom and dad and Grandpa Jack can't let that happen."

"Then why can't they just come with us? We do just fine."

_Just fine?_ Weiss wants to splutter. _Yeah, hopping country to country, alias to alias, staying up at night praying we're not caught. Yeah, we're "just fine."_

"They have to fight the bad guys," Weiss says instead.

Isabelle frowns at his use of "they." She trusts Weiss's statements about her parents, but she doesn't like how he pretends he's not important.

"_Oh God, you have a fever. You have a really, really, really bad fever. And we're in the middle of nowhere. Jesus Christ what am I supposed to do?"_

_He remembers on the map there being a small village a ways away. And by "ways away," he means twenty miles. But he looks down at the one-year-old child moaning in pain in his arms, and his mind's made up._

_By the time he reaches the village, he's drowning in sweat, every muscle quivering from running full-out, and he nearly collapses against the first hut he sees. Women standing outside airing the laundry startle at the intruder, and one particularly inquisitive young woman cautiously comes towards them._

"_Señor? ¿Señor, qué pasa?"_

_Weiss can hardly speak his lungs are burning and vision blacking. "La niña…mi hija…ella…ella tiene fiebre. Ayúdame. ¡Por favor, ayúdame!"_

_The woman presses the back of her hand to Isabelle's forehead and makes a noise of horror. She calls for what serves as their doctor and gently guides Weiss into a hut while they work on Isabelle. He never leaves her side._

* * *

"They're not the only ones," Isabelle proclaims softly. Weiss raises an eyebrow at her.

"_Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you," Weiss sings, his mouth turning up as Isabelle makes a face at his voice. "Happy birthday dear Isabelle, happy birthday to you."_

_She looks at the small cake Weiss had procured, at the four dainty candles stuck inside. "It's so pretty."_

"_Make a wish," Weiss instructs._

_Isabelle shuts her eyes tight and mouths something Weiss can't decipher (he never was good at lip reading), then opens them and blows out the candles in one breath. Weiss claps for her, and she laughs._

"_Can I eat it now?" she asks eagerly._

"_In a minute," says Weiss. He hands her a fork he'd found in the almost-bare cupboards and keeps one for himself, motioning for her to start. She digs in, making a sound of appreciation as she swallows the bite. It's not exactly artisan, but even Weiss has to admit it tastes more than acceptable._

_After they eat their fill, he hands Isabelle a woven blanket. "For me? I've wanted a new blanket!" she squeals._

_Weiss shakes his head. "Look inside."_

_Isabelle frowns, unfolding the blanket. Nestled in the center lies a dainty necklace on which rests a small silver magnolia. Isabelle gasps. "Thank you, Uncle Eric," she says._

"_You're very welcome," he replies, pushing her hair to the side and clasping the chain around her neck. "And you're also the prettiest girl I've ever seen."_

_Isabelle gives him a dimpled smile and jumps up to run to the bathroom. She climbs up onto the counter, admiring herself in the cracked mirror. "I love it," she announces. "I'm going to wear it all the time."_

* * *

Isabelle glances down at the same silver magnolia that hangs against her throat, remembering the day he'd given it to her. Not that, unfortunately, there weren't bad times as well.

"_I heard something," four-year-old Isabelle squeaks. "Under the bed."_

"_Isabelle, there's nothing there," replies a very tired Weiss. "I promise, there's nothing there."_

"_There IS," Isabelle persists._

_Weiss sighs and gets off the bed, grabbing a flashlight from the nightstand and peering underneath. Predictably, only dust bunnies are manifest. "See? Nothing."_

_Isabelle's face is unsure, so Weiss sighs again. He reaches underneath the mattress and pulls out his large pocketknife, opening the blade. "Okay, first of all? Never touch this," he warns. "Second of all…"_

_He situates himself on the floor looking under the bed, switchblade held in his fist like a sword. Isabelle smiles at the image._

"_If anything even looks at you the wrong way, Uncle Eric'll get 'em," Weiss proclaims gallantly. Isabelle smiles again and, satisfied that she's sufficiently protected, turns on her side and falls asleep. Weiss has half a mind to just get right back in bed, but he made a vow. So he stays on the floor, blade in hand, for the next five months until Isabelle grows out of her phase. His back never does truly get rid of its crick._

"No," says Isabelle resolutely, her tears drying. "No, you do fight the bad guys, Uncle Eric. You fight _my_ bad guys."

_I went AWOL_, he wants to say.

_I majorly disobeyed protocol_, he wants to say.

_I'm probably branded as a traitor and on multiple watch lists_, he wants to say.

_The CIA is probably after me just like bad guys are after you_, he wants to say.

_Or they think I'm dead. Yes, I'm probably dead. Sorry, Ma, _he wants to say.

_I should've found a better way_, he wants to say.

_I'm not like your parents_, he wants to say.

"Thank you, Isabelle," he says.

Isabelle's gotten pretty good at reading people over the years, especially her uncle, and she can read his face now. So she simply leans up and presses a kiss to his check and throws her small arms around his neck.

"I love you, Uncle Eric."

"I love you too, squirt."


	11. Santo Domingo

**Strange Bedfellows**

**Chapter XI - Santo Domingo**

* * *

"Ella es hermosa. Al igual que su padre."

"Sí. Su padre."

"Bienvenido a la República Dominicana, Señor Iverson. Y su hija…los niños son lindos cuando duermen, eh?"

"Sí. Gracias."

A drive. Normally Weiss would wake Isabelle, normally she never falls asleep until they get to the house, but he doesn't have the heart to rouse her.

A safe house. It looks like all the others, and he lays her down on the coverlet gently.

A gun. He slips it under the pillow.

A postcard. Weiss exhales heavily.

_Soon._

It's just one word shorter, and the word itself is not that different than notes before, but at the same time it's monumental. Weiss reads the word over and over as if it'll say something else if he studies it enough. It doesn't, just glares at him menacingly, and he sits on the edge of the bed. While Isabelle's conscious he never lets himself show his exhaustion, but when she slumbers, he allows himself a few moments to sag his shoulders and rub his hand over his face. He's forty-six years old—this stress is not appreciated.

He glances over at Isabelle, at her angelic face while she dreams, and wonders if he should tell her of the note.

_No_, he decides after a moment. He may not technically be in the spy game anymore, but that doesn't mean he's somehow lost touch or forgotten. The note means Sydney and Vaughn are alive—by God does that make Weiss ache with hope—but it doesn't mean they'll still be alive an hour from now or a month or a year. There's no reason to build Isabelle up only to have her come crumbling down again.

Weiss takes a lighter out from his jacket and flicks on the flame, holding it to the edge of the paper. Within seconds it's reduced to fluttering pieces of ash, the message that brings both hope and desertion gone. He wants oh so desperately for Sydney and Vaughn to come back, to come for their daughter—he's wished for little else over the past eight years—but even more than that he doesn't want to see Isabelle get hurt.

Kicking the cindery remains under the bed, Weiss climbs onto the mattress, pulling Isabelle into his chest like always. She squirms at the movement, but then settles in, her delicate hand wrapping around his wrist.

It takes him a while to fall asleep, but when he finally does, he dreams of smoke and fear and four letters that mock him.

_Soon_.


	12. Caazapá

Note: I personally prefer more of a "choose your own ending" kind of story, but it's been requested I do an epilogue to tie everything up, so here it is.

* * *

**Strange Bedfellows**

**XII. Caazapá**

* * *

"Ella es hermosa. Al igual que su padre."

"Sí. Su padre."

"Bienvenido a Paraguay, Señor Elliott. Y tú, pequeña."

"Gracias."

A drive, a safe house, a gun, a postcard.

_Turn around._

His eyes widen to saucers as he reads. Grateful he hadn't put the gun under the pillow yet, Weiss whirls around and cocks it in one fluid motion. His finger poised on the trigger and aim held straight, ready to fire at will, it takes a second for him to process whom he sees. His grip on the gun doesn't waver, but he blinks a few times, wondering if he's hallucinating. He's glad Isabelle had gone to the restroom—he doesn't want her to see this.

"Who are you?" he demands to the two figures in the room.

They look at one another, realization dawning on them. "Weiss, we're not _doubles_."

"I would've been _notified_ if we were being rescued," says Weiss. Surely the two in front of him can't be legitimate…

"We thought it'd be a surprise," says the-one-who-looks-like-Vaughn. He looks Weiss up and down. "You look good."

Weiss snorts. "Yeah, right," he says. "Running around jungles and being under constant threat of death for eight years really makes a guy's skin glow." (He doesn't completely object, though; the one good thing—apart from raising Isabelle, of course—about being on the run is that he experienced the whole _Cast Away_ thing. He hasn't had a scale, but he estimates he's down to about 180.) A pause, then, "Prove yourselves."

There's hurt, but then deference. The man steps up, his face resolute and a little apologetic. "The first day we met, we got totally wasted. You told me that even three days after you were born you were named Erica."

Weiss blanches, but then feels tears start to well up at what it means. With no further hesitation, Weiss throws himself on Vaughn, unashamedly—okay, maybe there's a little shame—weeping. He turns to Sydney next and does the same, the force staggering her.

"Sydney…Vaughn…oh Jesus you have no idea how happy I am to see you!" he exclaims.

They look much wearier than he remembered: Sydney has a thin, two-inch scar that mars her cheekbone, her hair cut to above her shoulders, and she's thinner than he remembers; Vaughn's nose looks like it'd been broken (again), he clearly hasn't shaved in about a week, and favors his right knee. But it's definitely them.

"I told her you'd come," Weiss says proudly. "_I told her_."

Sydney and Vaughn look nervously at each other. "Can we…where…"

Weiss nearly slaps himself in the face. He rushes over to the bathroom door and knocks. "Hey, Isabelle? I have a surprise for you."

There's a beat, and then Isabelle opens the door, peering up at Weiss skeptically. "What _kind_ of surprise?" she asks.

It's then she notices they're not the only two in the room, and reflexively steps into Weiss's side. It doesn't take her long, however, to put together the two people in front of her with the two in the picture she'd seen a thousand times. There's a degree of hurt in their faces at the fact that she'd viewed them as threats, but neither can blame her.

"M-Mom? Dad?" she whispers, looking at Weiss for clarification. Weiss nods.

Isabelle turns back to Sydney and Vaughn and quick as a bullet she launches herself into Sydney's arms, burying her head in Vaughn's chest with a sob as he puts his arms around his family. Weiss watches them with both happiness and sadness, and a little shock—he's never ever seen Vaughn cry, but those are pretty clearly tears running down his friend's face. He feels a swelling beneath his rib cage he hasn't experienced since Isabelle learned to walk, and shuts his eyes in a moment of exaltation. He just prays this isn't a dream.

* * *

Hours of reminiscing and apologizing tell Weiss it isn't, in fact, a dream, and also finds Isabelle tuckered out on the bed. Sydney and Vaughn sit a scant six inches from her with Weiss on the chair, all three watching her adoringly. After making sure she's entirely asleep, Vaughn holds out his hand to Weiss, who shakes it firmly.

"Thank you," says Vaughn with more sincerity than Weiss has ever heard. "We owe you so much."

Weiss shoots him a lopsided grin. "Damn straight you do," he replies. Then he frowns as he looks down at Vaughn's hand, which is devoid of a wedding band. "Hey…I thought you guys would be hitched by now. How badly did Jack threaten you?"

Vaughn glances sadly at Sydney, who stares at the floor and fiddles with her engagement ring. "Dad died," says Sydney, "a couple weeks after Isabelle was born. Sloane shot him."

"What?" Weiss gapes. "I'm so sorry, Syd. I can't believe Sloane got away _again_."

A vindicated smile weaves its way to Sydney's lips. "He didn't," she answers. "Dad sacrificed himself and buried them both in a cave. Sloane found that Rambaldi eternal life formula, so he's down there forever."

"Good," says Weiss happily. "Bastard deserves it."

"Listen, about the wedding," says Vaughn, changing tack. "We didn't want to do it yet because it would've felt wrong without you and Isabelle there. We wanted to wait until we all got back to the States."

"You'd sure as hell better make me your best man, Mike," Weiss warns.

Vaughn laughs. "I figured that was a given."

Weiss pauses. "Okay, just tell me, though…we're really going home, right? No strings?"

Sydney's eyes sparkle as she grins. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a passport, handing it to Weiss. "Yeah, we're going home."

He opens up the document and reads the text. _Name: Eric Robert Weiss._ It's been so long since Weiss has had his own name on papers, and it's indescribable how great it feels.

"Oh," says Vaughn, pulling out something else. Weiss looks down at what he sees now is an ID badge. "You've been reinstated, with honors."

Weiss takes a shaky breath, eyes watering. "_Finally_."

* * *

**Los Angeles**

"She's beautiful. Just like her father."

"Yes. Her father."

"Welcome to the United States of America, Mr. Weiss, Mr. Vaughn, Ms. Bristow. And you, little one."

"Thank you."

A drive, an apartment, a beer, a family.

(No safe house, no gun, no note.)

Sydney and Vaughn say their vows a week later, on a secluded section of beach in Santa Barbara. Dixon steps in for Jack to walk her down the makeshift aisle, Jack's absence noted but accepted. Weiss stands proudly next to Vaughn as promised, and a now-ten-year-old Mitchell—who thankfully looks more like Carrie than Marshall—acts as ring bearer. Next to Weiss stand Will and his fiancée-cum-wife, standing somewhat awkwardly by a very pregnant Carrie. She's hyperaware that she's where Francie should be, but tries not to show it.

When Sydney and Dixon reach the front—which takes forever and a day, to Vaughn—they all look to the run-of-the-mill, normal, not CIA just _normal_, officiant to start. (Marshall had helpfully suggested Weiss be the officiant, him being "certified" and all, but it had been struck down the minute it left his lips.)

The ceremony isn't long, isn't wordy, just goes through the basics; after all, at this point it's just to get the piece of paper. If Isabelle thinks it's strange to see her parents getting married, she shows no indication, simply stands serenely by Sydney's side.

There are many poorly-concealed, wry smiles on the faces of everyone but the officiant at the words "'til death do us part" (for Sydney and Vaughn, "death" has always had a loose definition), but otherwise the ceremony goes smoothly. Two wedding bands and a kiss that's not quite chaste later, Isabelle hugs Sydney and Weiss shakes Vaughn's hand, bemoaning the fact that Vaughn hadn't let him throw him a bachelor party ("Dude, my thirtieth birthday was enough for a lifetime"), and so as a result his best man speech would be revenge.

It isn't, really, apart from the requisite mentioning of embarrassing moments, and Weiss, despite his inebriation, skillfully avoids anything specific from the past eight years. It's exactly the sort of tastefully distasteful toast that's required, and everyone drinks.

The reception doesn't last long given its guests, and the goodbyes are bittersweet—they're full of "sometime" and "one of these days" and "rain check," no one knowing for sure when next they'll see each other, particularly Sydney and Vaughn. There are two people conspicuously missing, though.

"Hey, Carrie," Sydney asks, coming up to her as she tries to wrangle Mitchell. "Have you seen Weiss or Isabelle?"

Carrie shrugs. "They were playing with Mitch last I saw," she replies.

Sydney doesn't envy Carrie's job of corralling a sugar crashing son and a husband who'd drunk a bit too much. "Thanks," she says. "And good luck."

Carrie laughs masochistically. "Livin' the dream." Grabbing Mitchell under her arms and beckoning Marshall, she bids, "I'll see you, Sydney. Tell Vaughn I said goodbye."

Sydney smiles. "Will do. Thanks for coming."

Turning away from her friend, she wanders through the house searching now for not only Weiss and Isabelle but her husband as well. She finds the latter leaning up against Isabelle's bedroom doorframe with a pleasantly amused look on his face.

"What are you—"

She stops herself as she follows his gaze. Weiss lies on the floor with a doll in his hand, Isabelle across from him decked out in a plastic crown and jewelry, both of them fast asleep. Sydney loops her arm through Vaughn's as she gazes down at them.

"Should we wake them?" asks Sydney.

A beat, then, "Nah. They deserve a full night's sleep."

Sydney smiles and shuts off the light. As she and Vaughn walk to their own room, she wonders aloud, "Think we'll have to adopt Weiss?"

Vaughn laughs. "At least we'd always have a babysitter," he replies. "Though I guess it won't be long before Isabelle doesn't need one…"

Sydney's silence makes him look over, her inscrutable expression eliciting a frown. "About that…" Sydney trails. "Isabelle may be almost old enough, but we still might need a babysitter."

It takes Vaughn a second, but then he looks down at Sydney's flat stomach and back up. "Really? You're sure?"

"Yes," says Sydney with a nod. "I had the doctor's appointment yesterday when you and the guys were picking up your suits."

"That's amazing," Vaughn says with a wide grin. Then he puts on an exaggerated expression of pondering. "But wait…does this mean we can't have our wedding night?"

Sydney shoots him a withering glance. Without a word, she shoves him onto the bed and kicks the door shut behind her. It's the first night she's felt at peace, her heart full knowing her family is back together, and she doesn't intend on wasting it.


End file.
